


Two Tales

by RainWillMakeTheFlowersGrow



Series: Lyrically Inspired [4]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Blood, Death, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Music, M/M, Memories, Road Trips, Worry, car crash, injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-20
Updated: 2014-04-20
Packaged: 2018-01-20 03:19:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1494622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainWillMakeTheFlowersGrow/pseuds/RainWillMakeTheFlowersGrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'We left the roadside in search of aid, windscreen shattered and tire marks made'<br/>Enjolras and Grantaire find themselves lost and injured in a vast forest after a car crash.<br/>'He stares through curtains and talks to the night, I sit and listen for tires on the drive'<br/>Combeferre and Courfeyrac wait anxiously for news of their missing friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Tales

**Author's Note:**

> This one's inspired by Passenger's 'Two Tales'. He's my favourite artist and this song is incredible. I definitely suggest going and listening to it because it's so haunting and brings such vivid imagery to mind as you listen to the story. You definitely won't regret it.
> 
> Thanks for reading :) I'm so grateful to know there might be someone out there reading.

The rain is coming down in sheets as a car flies down the road. Giant evergreens encroach on either side of the road, one of the few paved roads that winds it’s way through the immense forest. The clouds have been churning and roiling overhead all day, threatening rain, till finally opening up in the late afternoon.

Inside the car, an arrow appears on the GPS indicating at a turn from the main road onto another path. The wheels turn obligingly, jolting the car onto the newly muddy surface.

‘ _Yes_ , Combeferre, I promise you he’s driving very safely. The GPS says we’ll get there at around 7. See ya then,’ Grantaire hangs up and tosses his phone onto the backseat. ‘Man, your best friend cannot help but play mother can he?’ Enjolras smiles but doesn’t reply, eyes firmly on the path ahead of him. Grantaire groans as he shifts in his seat, trying to get comfortable, ‘I don’t know how much more of this driving I can take. We’ve been stuck in here for hours.’

‘Yeah and you’ve reminded me of that during every single one of those hours. So help me, if you start with the ‘are we there yets’ again I _will_ make you walk,’ Enjolras replies with a sigh, though his smile betrays him.

‘Aaand there’s dad to Combeferre’s mother. You guys are such a cute couple,’ which earns Grantaire his fifth punch of the car ride. He rubs his shoulder in mock pain before leaning over to place a conciliatory kiss on Enjolras’ cheek.

Bob Dylan’s _A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall_ fills the quiet as they lapse into silence once more. They’d finished off the road trip snacks within the first hour and had played I-spy more than enough times. Both their phone batteries were running low from playing games (in Grantaire’s case) and surfing the net (in Enjolras’) as the other drove. Enjolras’ phone is currently charging, though Grantaire has claimed the charger for his phone as soon as Enjolras’ hits 30% (‘enough for you to get to Combeferre and Courf’s whilst still allowing my phone with some recovery time’).

Against the backdrop of grey, the trees are the only things to have retained their colour. They seem to glow emerald as the water droplets make halos around the branches. The smell is intoxicating and, though Enjolras has asked him to close it multiple times, Grantaire has the window open a crack to let that freshness in.

‘Remember Scotland?’ he asks with a vague smile, staring at the damp greenery that flashes past his eyes. A slow smile forms on Enjolras’ lips and he glances over, catching Grantaire’s hand in his own as a silent ‘yes’.

It had been a graduation present from Enjolras’ parents to the both of them.  A trip to Scotland for a week in their own secluded cottage; to help them relax after the exam period. Somehow, they had ended up going at the start of spring. Perhaps not their wisest decision.

It had rained the entire time. Their one room house’s only source of heating was a beautiful stone fireplace. They’d run out of wood to feed the fire by the third day. In pouring rain they’d stood outside staring at large rings of wood waiting to be cut. Despite loud protestation by Grantaire (‘This isn’t a fucking Jane Austen novel, I don’t know how to chop wood!’) They’d managed to chop enough for Enjolras to build up another fire.

When Grantaire hadn’t returned from out of the rain by the time Enjolras had the fire crackling merrily in it’s grate he was forced to venture back out to look for him. He’d found him standing soaking wet, clothes clinging to him with freezing rain, staring out across the field. After being warned to approach quietly, Enjolras stood behind Grantaire, arms wrapped around his waist, glancing over his boyfriend’s shoulder to see what he was looking at. But all he saw was a flash of brown fur before it was gone. Grantaire had chastised him for scaring off what he thought must have been a doe but Enjolras had distracted him; kissing his neck and enticing him back into the house with promises of a warm fire.

Eventually they had stumbled back into the warmth of the cottage and wet things were pulled roughly from their bodies, between hungry kisses, before they’d made it to the bed. Their trip had improved considerably from there.

‘Yeah that’s definitely in the top ten holidays that we’ve taken,’ Grantaire sighs, leaning his head against the cool window. Enjolras laughs,

‘I’d say we’ve only been on about 5 holidays together but, sure, it’s up there. This holiday was pretty good too,’

‘Enj, this wasn’t a holiday,’ Grantaire scoffs, ‘this was a conference. It doesn’t count.’ To which Enjolras rolls his eyes. He’d at least enjoyed it.

‘Fine but what we’re doing right now, getting together with the whole group, _does_ count as a holiday,’ which they can both agree on. They haven’t seen most of them in over a month and even that, seemingly small, amount of time has made them miss their friends almost to the point of heart ache (as Grantaire had so dramatically put it after a particularly long phone conversation with Courfeyrac). The conference was to bring them within driving distance of their hometown and, somehow, that simple fact had meant everyone was coming back to town for the week. Grantaire and Enjolras would arrive at Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s house later tonight and the others were all getting in at various points the next day. Needless to say, it’s been a much-anticipated week.

Another few minutes pass in silence while Grantaire doodles idly in a sketchbook and Enjolras drives. A quick succession of beeps, issued from the GPS, breaks the silence and the picture on screen freezes. Enjolras groans; tapping on the little black box in a vain attempt to get it working.

‘Signals dropped out,’

‘Fuck. You serious?’ Grantaire curses as he checks both their phones for signals. Nothing. ‘Do you remember when the turn off is?’

‘I think so… it wasn’t much farther; somewhere on the left,’ Enjolras cranes his neck, trying to glance a side road through the rain.

It’s only a few minutes later (much sooner than anticipated) that he spots it. Indicating left, much to Grantaire’s amusement since theirs is the only car in sight, he turns down the narrow path.

The anxiety in the car dissolves marginally. If they can follow the path out of the forest they’ll hit a main road in no time. Half an hour passes and the tension has finally gone from Enjolras’ shoulders completely. Feeling reassured, Grantaire goes back to his drawing.

‘Feels like we’re driving through the Forbidden Forest or something; it’s so eerie,’ he mutters, trying to get things back to feeling normal. He flicks his pencil at Enjolras as his make shift wand. The blond waves him off halfheartedly, laughing at the random words he’s making up to use as spells. At some point he manages to grab hold of the pencil and aims a spell back at Grantaire before chucking the ‘wand’ onto the backseat.

He’s too busy watching Grantaire fake die and only just catches sight of the antlers in the glow of the headlights in time to jerk the steering wheel to the side. The car skids off the road. Slipping down the muddy hill, it does a single roll before crashing into a tree with a sickening crunch.

Everything goes still.

 

It could be seconds or it could be hours later; Enjolras is blinking his eyes, trying to regain some level of cohesion. He’s not sure where he is or what’s happened but there’s a high pitch ringing in his ears and his whole body is aching. Slowly his blurred vision focuses and he begins to notice more. He’s behind the wheel of a car, the windscreen has been shattered to pieces and the glass is lying broken around him, the front of the car is crumpled against a thick tree trunk and steam hisses out each time a rain drop falls onto the exposed engine.

He blinks a few more times trying to clear the sense of loss and panic from his head so he can just figure this out. It smell’s like rain and oil and burnt rubber but there’s also a richer smell beneath them that he can’t quite put his finger on. Metallic and thick and, somehow, unpleasant in connotation. Blood; his mind supplies the answer and all at once everything clicks into place.

‘Grantaire,’ he gasps as he turns to look at the man beside him. His eyes are closed, his head slumped forward, tattooed skin running red from cuts, a particularly wide, deadly looking shard of glass lodged in his wrist.

Something cold begins clawing its way up Enjolras’ throat as his eyes lock onto the dark red blood slowly covering Grantaire’s entire hand, soaking into his shirt.

‘Grantaire!’ more urgent this time, Enjolras takes his shoulder and shakes him. Grantaire’s head slumps; useless and unresponsive. In a blind panic Enjolras slams his door open and trips around the car to wrench the passenger door open. Grantaire collapses out the newly made opening, held in only by his seatbelt. Holding back a sob Enjolras rips back the sleeve of Grantaire’s shirt and clenches his intact wrist. His sob turns into a hiccup as he feels the pulse still beating beneath the skin.

‘Oh thank goodness. Come on Grantaire let me get you out of here,’ he can feel warm tears rolling down his cheeks alongside icy raindrops and scrubs them roughly away before gently taking hold of R.

Making sure he’s fully supported, Enjolras leans over to unbuckle Grantaire and pull him, as gently as possible, out of the car. He leans him against a tree, cushioning his head on a bunched up jumper, before allowing himself to reexamine the wound in the other wrist.

Enjolras is no expert, but from what he _has_ heard the blood would be spurting from his wrist if the glass had severed an artery. But it’s still cut deep, through veins, and the amount of blood that Grantaire is losing is not good. Ripping roughly at his t-shirt, Enjolras manages to tear away what he hopes is enough for a bandage.

He gently raises the wrist from Grantaire’s side and rivulets of warm blood immediately flow onto his hands as well, coiling around them as if they wish to claim him too. Enjolras pauses. As he studies the shard warnings go off in his mind, things he’s learnt from movies and real life: taking the blade out can allow more blood to flow and he could bleed out sooner. But, on the other hand, he’s losing so much as it is and Enjolras can’t stem the flow unless the glass comes out. Steeling himself with a deep breath he grips the cold glass and gently but quickly pulls it out.

Grantaire screams. And, though the cold feeling inside grips him a little tighter at the sound, he sobs in relief at getting some reaction.

‘I’m so sorry, ‘Taire, I’m so sorry,’ he repeats over and over as he winds the makeshift bandage as tightly as he can around the jagged wound.

Grantaire is panting; staring wildly around, uncomprehending but conscious and _alive_. And yet with each blink his eyes close for a little bit longer as he begins to black out. Enjolras knows not to let him slip away again.

‘Grantaire,’ he says shaking him, more gently this time. The other man just blinks quickly before slumping back again. ‘Grantaire. ‘Taire!’ His eyes blink open once more, at the familiar nickname, and sluggishly focus on Enjolras’ face.

‘Enjolras,’ Grantaire whispers. Enjolras sighs in relief and presses his lips to their joined hands. The brunet’s eyes have slid past his boyfriend’s face to the wreckage behind him and he stares at it, expressionless. ‘We need to get help,’ he finally manages, tearing his eyes away from the car to meet Enjolras’ gaze. The only response is a single nod before Enjolras moves towards the car. He returns with a packet of chocolate chip biscuits and a bottle of water, which he hands to Grantaire as a wordless command.

‘You were holding out on me. Said all the snacks were finished,’ Grantaire murmurs, raising a biscuit to show what he means. Enjolras lips barely even twitch as he attempts to smile in response. He turns back to the car to pack some provisions into a small backpack instead. His phone (Grantaire’s phone is shattered to pieces on the floor), a torch he finds in the boot, Grantaire’s sketchbook, the GPS (still out of range but miraculously intact), a couple of spare t-shirts to use as bandages and a hoody each is all they’ll manage to carry. Enjolras rakes a hand through his hair as he looks over their meager supplies and hopes that they’ll find help soon. There’s blood on his hand when he pulls it away and he wonders idly how there can still be so much of Grantaire’s blood on him after he wiped it away so rigorously.

He’s still staring at it when Grantaire’s voice breaks through his trance, ‘Ok… let’s go.’ Restored slightly by the food, he’s managed to stand but is leaning heavily against the tree, holding a hand out to Enjolras. The other man nods before coming to slip an arm around him, shifting Grantaire’s weight from the tree on to him.

As they leave the wreckage behind the rain mercifully begins to ease. But two hours later it’s getting dark and they’re still walking, path lit by a dying torch.

 

***

It’s eight o’clock when Combeferre relights the stove beneath the kettle once more. Ignoring the two extra mugs he set out an hour earlier, he places tea bags in another two and stares, through the doorway, at the fire in the sitting room. It’s the only light in the room and he can see Courfeyrac’s silhouette pacing back and fourth in front of it.

Everything’s sitting exactly as it has for the past couple of hours; a beer for Grantaire going warm on the table beside Enjolras’ cider, chip bowl still overflowing with Doritos and store bought donuts going stale on a plate.

Another hour ticks by and Courfeyrac tips the cold tea unceremoniously down the sink. Neither of them had taken even a sip. Glassware crashes nosily together as he starts packing everything away in jerky, agitated motions. The dishwasher door closes with a bang and Combeferre winces. There’s a brief silence as Courfeyrac stares around at the empty room before he begins straightening the chairs around the table, scraping the floor; metal on wood. Perhaps he can’t hear it. Or perhaps the sound takes his mind off things.

Combeferre sits alone in the sitting room. The flames in the fireplace are slowly dying into glowing embers but he can’t tell if he’s been sitting here for mere hours or if summer has already followed winter and a new winter chill has come around again. His eyes remain on the motionless front door, only occasionally looking round to watch Courfeyrac.

Finally, he returns to the sitting room ‘We should call the police.’ It’s the first words either of them has spoken in hours. Combeferre can’t bring himself to do anything other than nod but that’s all the confirmation Courfeyrac needs. When he next enters the room he has put on shoes and is clutching keys in hand. ‘You coming down to the police station with me?’ he pauses in the doorway.

‘No,’ Combeferre finally speaks up, ‘I’m going to wait here. See if they turn up.’ Courfeyrac nods before stepping out the door, letting it slowly fall shut behind him.

Without Courfeyrac’s noise the room is void of living sound. But in the silence Combeferre’s ears pick up other sounds, other noises to echo round his mind: the wall clock ticking the hours by, the last drops of rain water still dripping down from the roof of the house, the dishwasher clunking away as it washes their dishes and the gentle breathing of their cat slumbering before the fire, oblivious to the troubles around her.

 

 

The sound of a car pulling up brings Combeferre to his feet. The fire has completely died and the cat has moved closer to Combeferre’s warmth but otherwise things are as they were when Courfeyrac left. Standing in the front doorway, Combeferre can see his housemate’s familiar car park it’s self in its usual park and his heart sinks. He wordlessly follows Courfeyrac inside and waits for him to sit before asking,

‘So? What did the police say?’

‘They said they’d start looking…The combination of bad weather and the fact that they were barely partway through the forest when you last called seemed to be concerning enough to entail an immediate search… said they’d get in touch as soon as they knew anything,’ Courfeyrac replied in a careful monotone, not meeting his friend’s gaze.

Combeferre sighs and sits down on the couch beside Courfeyrac as he mulls over the double edge sword. On the one hand the police are going out to search straight away, but… on the other hand that means Enjolras and Grantaire could be in _real_ trouble. He can’t decide whether he’s glad or not that he doesn’t know the statistics of people who go missing in that forest or, worse, who don’t come out again. The thought is pushed roughly from Combeferre’s mind and he resolves to wait for more information from the police before jumping to conclusions.

Courfeyrac is on his feet again in moments, returning to pace and fidget while he waits. It’s now almost midnight.

 

***

When they finally make it to a clearing at the top of a small hill Enjolras stops walking. The biscuits have been demolished by both of them and they have less than a quarter of a bottle of water left. Enjolras has been feeling increasingly dizzy and he knows Grantaire is faring far worse.

‘Let’s stop here for tonight,’ he suggests, as if Grantaire has a choice. He’s been leaning on Enjolras more and more the further they’ve walked (if stumbling along, barely balanced, can be called walking), though the food and drink did help while they lasted. So he nods and they both sink gratefully to the ground. The grass is still damp beneath them but Enjolras begins gathering leaves to create a bed, of sorts, for the both of them. The leaves have dried more quickly and provide some barrier between them and the wet ground.

‘I found some matches in the car, must be from when you still smoked-’ (‘Oooh, smoking,’ Grantaire groans longingly), ‘- so I’m going to try light a fire. Send some smoke up or something,’ Enjolras says. He ruffles through the backpack for a moment before pulling out a crumpled packet of matches.

He spends a few minutes trying to get the leaves to catch on the flame but, while it does produces billows of smoke, there’s not enough to reach far into the sky and alert anyone. Down to four matches, Enjolras gives up and lies back down. He pulls Grantaire closer to himself so they can share warmth and scrunches his eyes closed in an attempt to drive away the dizziness.

‘So… what happened? How did we end up... not on the road?’ Grantaire ventures quietly. Enjolras shifts round to look at him, realizing that, apart from waking up injured beside the wreckage of their car, Grantaire has no idea what happened.

‘I’m sorry. This is my fault, I wasn’t watching the road and a deer came from no where and I swerved and then… I don’t know, it was all too fast… we crashed I guess,’ Grantaire is frowning at him as he processes the information.

Then he answers in almost a whisper ‘It wasn’t your fault. If anything you saved my life,’ he indicates to his blood soaked shirt, ‘judging by the amount of blood, whatever happened to my wrist was bleeding me dry. I don’t know where you learnt your first aid but this pressure bandage has kept me from losing anymore blood.’ Enjolras grips him more tightly to himself and intertwines their fingers.

It could be beautiful, lying out under the stars together, had they not been exhausted and weak with only a blanket of leaves to keep the chill off. At some point or other they’d camped under the stars with all their friends, more than once even. The night sky had always been beautiful but perhaps, Enjolras ponders, they’d never appreciated it as much as he’s appreciating it now, with Grantaire still alive by his side.

‘I love you, ‘Taire,’ he whispers before pressing his lips against dark curls of damp hair. Grantaire smiles at him in response and traces Enjolras’ face with gentle fingers. ‘Remember when you hated that nickname?’

Grantaire manages a quiet laugh ‘Yeah, it was the Apollo of nicknames to me,’

‘Unintentional revenge for all the years of being called Apollo. You ended up liking it though,’ Enjolras says as he cards his fingers through Grantaire’s hair.

‘Yeah, it’s like your version of ‘love’ or ‘sweetheart’. Somehow you made it endearing,’ Grantaire replies, somewhat incredulously.

‘I'll admit watching you blush every time I said ‘Taire-bear was hilarious,’

‘Well at least you dropped the bear bit, unlike Courf,’ Grantaire grumbles as he shuffles around to get comfortable. He winces as he moves his injured arm and the mood turns serious again as they’re dragged back to the present.

‘We’ll be ok. Tomorrow we’ll find help,’ Enjolras says, sounding more confident than he feels, ‘You should sleep, I’ll stay up for a while longer and listen out for cars.’  

He watches Grantaire’s eyes flutter closed and his breathing deepens as he falls into an exhausted sleep. Suddenly feeling irrationally alone, Enjolras drapes himself more closely around Grantaire; as if hiding him from the night. Eventually his eyes droop closed as well as the dizziness spirals him into sleep.

 

***

Courfeyrac stands at the window, staring through curtains. His hands fidget frequently, his eyes darting back and forth down each end of the street. And the whole time he talks. It’s quiet and cautious, he’s not quite talking to himself but he’s not talking to anyone else either. Every muttered word falls on deaf ears. It’s just sound- perhaps comforting to Courfeyrac as some form of living noise fills the silence around him.

Combeferre sits in the same chair in the darkened room and listens. Not to Courfeyrac, though his noise echoes around in Combeferre’s mind, but for a sound that will eventually come. He listens for tires on the drive: the police, their friends, or maybe, as some small hopeful voice in the back of his mind whispers, Grantaire and Enjolras finally coming home with a simple explanation on their lips.

But there’s no car. The driveway remains dark as he sits and waits and dreads. The clock, the wind, the dishwasher and Courfeyrac’s muttering- the endless muttering- swirl around and around in his mind not letting him rest but not letting him to fear either. But underneath the numbness there’s a terrifying certainty: the certainty that it’s too late, Grantaire and Enjolras aren’t coming back.

Suddenly he’s dreading the car that will inevitably park in their drive and the policeman who will come to their door with news and a heavy heart. He doesn’t want to hear his condolences, doesn’t want to hear Courfeyrac’s cries or those of Jehan, Feuilly, Bahorel, Joly, Bossuet, Eponine, Marius or Cosette.

Clutching his hands to his ears, Combeferre tries to block out those thoughts but they remain, along with Courfeyrac’s quiet words: tumbling from his mouth without pause. It hurts, somewhere, deep within Combeferre’s numb mind, pain and despair are building up a storm within him. He wishes he could stop it, run away from it.

But all he wants most is silence.

 

***

By morning the sky has cleared but the chill still hangs in the air. Two figures lie side-by-side, still and cold.

Enjolras slipped away first, unknowing and asleep, a head wound he didn’t even realize he had finally bled out to leave him resting in a patch of grass nourished by his blood. Grantaire had followed, though not as peacefully at first. He’d woken in the night and found Enjolras pale and lifeless, his arms still wrapped around him. Now the bandage from around Grantaire’s wrist, that had kept him alive, lay discarded on the grass beside him, removed in the night. Red had slowly crept down his wrist once more as he fell back asleep to breathe his last.

As the sun creeps up over the tree line of the forest, the police find them in the clearing on the hill, lying hand in hand.

**Author's Note:**

> My medical knowledge isn't great and most of it was googled so I don't know how reliable it is. If it's all unrealistic sorry :S Also I know that the process for reporting missing persons is different everywhere but where I am you don't have to wait 24 hours or anything you just go and report them... So I just went with that. 
> 
> Thanks again :)


End file.
